


And Kirkwall Was Burning Bright

by AceQueenKing



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Crush, Complicated Relationships, Last survivors, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Resentment, Survivor Guilt, Templar Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-29 16:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Two brothers get a drink at the end of the world.





	And Kirkwall Was Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).

"Shit," Garrett says, and Carver rolls his eyes. Once again, Garrett's found the most succinct way to say the most obvious truth. He isn't okay, and that's obvious, and Carver isn't either, and neither of them knows what to do. That's obvious, too. Feels like the whole world is on fire. Smells like it, too; even Hightown still has some fires burning.  
  
Course that's the least of their problems. At least one of Garrett's scrappy crew is a fugitive, and Carver's boss is a huge lyrium sculpture; just your average Kirkwall shitshow. This is the only peaceful place in a city on fire; the damn fires been put out at at the Blooming Rose, because Kirkwall has its priorities, and most of them involve drinking or whoring. Even Gamlen seems numb, their cockroach of an uncle, who doles out drinks without even asking if they've got the coin to pay.  
  
"_Shit_," Carver agrees; he takes a big gulp of Gamlen's watered-down beer; awful stuff, it is, but Carver's got bigger priorities than investigating the alcoholic content of Gamlen's latest swill. It's drinkable, for the moment.  
  
"_Shiiiiiiiiit_," Garrett croaks. He hasn't heard that voice waver since - since mom, but Garrett's thankfully looking at Gamlen and thus misses his wincing. "What did you put in this, uncle? Foul stuff."  
  
Gamlen doesn't fight back; he just shakes his head. Beggars can't be choosers, he seems to communicate with a weary head nod, and then he's off serving someone else because even Gamlen finds work more palatable than talking as a family. Mom and Bethany would know how to fix things, but they're with dad now, and only the most miserable of the Hawke clan is left alive. Hawke makes a face, then downs the rest of the glass quickly, because well, neither of them are drinking for taste.  
  
"Oy! Barkeep!" Someone at Garrett's side—not one of his friends, because Carver knows _all_ of Garrett's _numerous_ friends—raises his arm with the empty mug still attached. "Empty mugs here! Ain't you know this is the Champion of bloody Kirkwall?"  
  
Garrett has the decency to look right embarrassed at the title. Which makes it all the more aggravating; Carver could at least _enjoy_ his bitterness at his brother's success if Garrett had the good sense to at least partake in the comforts of his fame. Carver could at least resent loving him if he thought Garrett was just some attention whore.  
  
But he's special, and he always has been, and Carver, well, he's Hawke's brother. History won't remember Garrett being Garrett—just Hawke. Singular. As if there weren't four more of the Hawke clan, all but one dead and gone. No one will remember Carter. That used to rankle.  
  
Now, in a fit of badly-made vino and its soon-to-be-regretted veritas, Carber thinks that, blessedly, no one will remember Gamlen either.  
  
Gamlen comes back, rolls his eyes, refills their jars of pisswater. Then he's gone. Garrett Hawke, the most open secret of all the many, many open-secret mages, offers his mug up to Carver, raises it high and Carver clinks it against his own. Carver laughs at this despite himself; it feels like a bad joke. Two brothers, one a mage and one a Templar, walk into a whorehouse. He doesn't know the punchline, which means its probably him.  
  
"Shit shit shit." Hawke shrugs as he tosses back his poison. "This is so fucked up."  
  
It is. It's _super_ fucked up. Garrett's friend just blew up a chantry. A city devoured itself in blood. The fires are still going. Their mother is dead. Many of their friends are gone, and may well be dead. So. Fucked. Up.  
  
Garrett drinks quickly and Carver tries to match him, but as usual, Garrett's just a bit better at this kind of thing. Drink; look at Garrett, look at Gamlen. Drink again, look again, and keep waiting until your vision blurs, until everything familiar looks as strange as the new world they've found themselves in. That's Carver's new philosophy.  
  
"I keep expecting to wake up sometimes," Carver mutters, a few drinks too many loosening his tongue. "Wake up tomorrow and I'll expect to see the chantry. Or mom. Or Beth—"  
  
Garrett cuts him off, squeezes his thigh in a silent moment. And he knows Garret is drunk, because Garret would never act on this if he wasn't, and he doesn't knock Garrett's hand off, because the city is burning as Lothering burned, and Carver is hurt, and Carver is tired of loving and hating Garrett in equal measure.  
  
"Come back to the manor tonight," Garrett says, voice low, and like everything with his brother, its a complicated as fuck question. Garrett is breathing heavy, waiting for his response, and Carver puts his hand over his brother's. "Please. I need-"  
  
And he does, Carver sees that he _does_. The great Garrett Hawke is human despite all the rumors, and he needs comfort and touch the same as any other man. He usually finds that kind of comfort in other men, in other places; lets the undercurrent between them go uncharged. But today, it is buzzing. And today, the city is burning. And today, Carver has the power to lash out at his brother, to abandon him as all his friends have abandoned him, drifting to the seven corners of who-the-fuck-knows-where. And it would be easy, Carver thinks, to leave him here, lying in the mess he has made. Move away, change his name so Garrett can be just Hawke, as he is so often known, without feeling bad about it. Find another Templar group. Be his own man.  
  
But what he says is, "I'll be there," and what he does is squeeze Garrett's hand in a way that is more suggestive than most of the tricks the whores around here are plying, and that's saying something because the whores are doing a viscount's business tonight, when the survivors need to find a willing body to whisper into: _I survived, I survived._  
  
Carver Hawke isn't an important man. When the city is rebuilt, no one will make his image in gold; 100 years from now, the stories they tell about the night Kirkwall burned will be of a kind-hearted mage, not his templar brother. But maybe that's okay. Carver isn't sure he could handle the city burning down because he made a bad judgment call on a troubled friend. Carver isn't strong enough, but maybe Garrett is. Garrett is special, and Carver isn't. Maybe Carver can at least help Garret lighten the load. Maybe if he's really lucky, he'll even find a way not to resent Garrett for trying.  
  
"Thanks," Garret says, and he feels the weight of the world falling on Garrett's shoulders. He drinks a little more as Carver stands, readjusts his armor. He should at least see if there's anything left of the Templar's buildings, see if there's anything left he can do. He's not Garrett, but he's useful in his own ways.  
  
"Be careful," he says; he's lost enough already. "I'll be back soon as I can."  
  
"Don't die," Garrett says, quiet; there are ghosts in Garrett's eyes, and it's obvious even if Carver can't see them. "You're all I—"  
  
"I know," he says, finishing off his drink. For once, he's beaten Garrett to the bottom of the mug. He squeezes Garrett's shoulder. "Well. Don't forget. There's always Gamlen."  
  
"Fuck off," his brother says, finishing his drink and rising to unsteady feet. The Great Garrett Hawke will be walking the same paths he is tonight, Carver's sure; looking for survivors, putting out fires.  
  
Carver laughs again, and Garrett laughs with him; its a morose laugh, and a weak laugh, but its there. And maybe that's a sign things will be okay, and maybe its a sign of how fucked up things are, and maybe it's just a momentary ceasefire in a long-simmering war. But maybe it's enough, for that moment.  
  
The city is burning, and Carver's nostrils burn in the acrid smoke of Kirkwall's many fires. But Garrett is alive, and he is alive, and maybe tonight they'll talk things out, and maybe tonight they'll cling to one another, and maybe tonight they'll weep together, and maybe tonight they'll argue until they're blue in the face, and maybe they won't talk about tonight tomorrow when they wake up in the same bed, unwilling to look one another in the eye.  
  
But no matter which of those things they do, the world will keep on turning. It's fucked up, and they're fucked up, but they're still alive, and there's a city to rebuild, and Carver goes out into that eerily bright night, and he thinks, there's work to be done.  
  
He might not be a hero, but he's alive, and Garrett is alive, and that will, somehow, have to be enough.


End file.
